


Illuminated Cities at the Centre of Me

by eiqhties



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Immortal Niall, M/M, Pining, Reincarnated Zayn, Reincarnation, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 06:08:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5956513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eiqhties/pseuds/eiqhties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"I have lived a thousand lives and I’ve loved a thousand loves. I’ve walked on distant worlds and seen the end of time."</i> - George R.R Martin</p><p>Working title for this piece was; 'Two Hundred Times You Loved Him'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Illuminated Cities at the Centre of Me

**#67**

It’s his hands that you notice first. You always notice the hands, first. This time even more so; you’re allowed to look at them, this time.  

They’re different to the how they were before. Different to how they'll be again. It doesn't matter; you know him anywhere.

Right now, they’re pale and skinny - long fingers, prominent veins. Some things have stayed the same, though.

You don’t need to see it to know that they shake slightly when he stands still for long enough, as though the fire that burns within him can’t be contained.  As though he has to be moving at all times.

Right now, the knuckles are knobbly, and bruised red, skin raw. You don’t need to see them to know that, either.

His nails are bitten, jagged and short - pink from the skin underneath shining through. The rag he’s used to bind his hands is no longer white; now it’s a washed out, dirty grey, and it’s trailing - loose from where it’s come undone. His hands are nothing more than a blur, landing punch after punch to the rhythm of the gasps of the crowd. You can barely see them, but you don’t need to be able to see them to know them.  

You can’t breathe as you watch him - not because you think he’ll lose, you know he won’t lose.

You can’t breathe, because he moves like you remember. Water, crashing against the rocks; his fists, crashing against the other man. He’s sweating, and you watch it bead on his forehead, drip down his face, his neck. You think about all the times you’ve been allowed to touch that neck. You think about all the times you haven’t.

He looks up - catches sight of you in the crowd. It feels like his fist found a different target - your stomach. You feel like someone upended you, turned everything on it’s head. You wonder if he can see the force of your love from here.

You wonder if this will be one of the good times.

His eyes go wide, and you feel your heart stop. This is one of the times he remembers you. This is one of the times you’ll get to talk to him. To touch him. To draw him in and hold him.

He stops, fists hanging loosely by his sides. The other man takes the pause, and uses it to his advantage.

He lands his first punch.

 

**#123**

You’ve been seeing him more frequently, lately. It used to be that you could go deccades upon decades without seeing him.

Now, it’s long if it’s five years.

He doesn’t always look the same, doesn’t even always speak the same - but you can tell it’s him. The second that you see him, it clicks in your head.

You don’t know if that makes it better, or worse.

Better, because you see him - and you love it when you get to see him. Worse, because you have to leave him - and you hate it when you have to leave him.

This time, he’s working behind the counter in a tiny store. You’re not paying attention, not properly. You don’t realise it’s him until you look up - ready to ask for a glass of water, beg, if you need to.

You look up, and the two of you make eye contact at the same time. You choke, stammering - prepared for anything; unprepared for this.

His hands are resting in front of you on the counter, less than a foot away from your own. You stare at them - then look him in the eye again. He’s smiling, but it’s just a twist of his mouth, pulling up the corner of his face. His eyes are kind, but empty. Brown looking into your blue, and you feel your heart sink.

He doesn’t remember you this time.

You order, still shaking from the surprise of it all - and he looks worried, tiny crease between his brows as he watches you try to act normally. You’re gnawing on your nails, a habit you picked up from him, years ago. Somewhere - along the line, he managed to stop.

You never have.

He asks you something, and you have to shut your eyes against his voice, it’s almost too much. He repeats it, and you look at him.

“Are you okay?” He asks, and you nod, juddery and uncomfortable. He’s speaking Swahili to you - a new one for him. Last time, he was American.

You take the cup, mutter, “I’m alright,” again. He doesn’t look convinced, and, as you leave the shop - you feel his eyes follow you out the door.

 

**#31**

He’s playing the piano.

You didn’t even know it was him, at first - didn’t think that he’d be here, in all places. You’d just heard the piano, followed the sound of it - something so familiar in the music.

You can see him, sort of. There’s a lot of people in the way, listening to him play. They’re dressed rich, posh, and you know, without really checking, that his music is famous in this part of town. You also know that he’ll never make it out of here, no matter how much he might want to. He can never dent history, never be known to other people the same way he’s known to you.

After all, if he was - then other people would find him. People outside of you.

You stand there, too far away to be noticed. You listen, breathing in the sound of his music.

Then, taking a deep breath, you leave.

 

**#44**

This time, he knows you. He knows you well; runs straight to your arms when he sees you.

This time, you feel the flesh on his bones - the way the blood pounds underneath his skin. You can see his eyes, up close - green, this time. You can feel the way his heart beats when you duck your mouth to kiss his neck - the way his nails grab at you, scratch down your back.

“I love you,” He says; whispers it in your ear. Russian, this time. His nose is cold as it touches your cheek.

“I’ll always love you,” You tell him. Try to breathe him in, pull him closer.

“I have to go, in the morning,” He says. He’s sad - his eyes filling with tears. You look down at him, where he’s pressed beneath you - and wonder what that’s like. Wonder what it’s like, to only be able to remember so few times that you still cry for it.

You don’t answer him - just press him closer. Try to press yourself against him, hold him there forever.

In the morning, you’re alone. You’re always alone in the morning.

 

**#196**

You’ve given up searching for him. Given up on giving up. You know, no matter how hard you try that he always appears - like he’s just as drawn to you, as you are to him. Like they push him into the world the second your foot hits the ground of each new country.

In the beginning, you’d tried to run from it - traveled to the middle of nowhere, to the edges of the Earth. You’d always found him anyway.

When you’d actively searched for him, he’d remained elusive. A mirage. A moment, smoke contained in the bare hands of the desperate. Sometimes, you think about how all this is your fault. You love him so much it feels like burning, sometimes, but you didn’t love him enough to let him go.

You see him, across a crowded street in Thailand, his shoulders are hunched as he’s walking. You think about calling out to him - running after him. You don't. That hasn't ended well before.

As you watch, a female appears. She stands in front of him, and you see the way he takes her hand, pulls her into his arms. You don't see the way he smiles, but you know it.

You swallow, look away, walk in the other direction. This has happened before, once - and you forgot how much it hurt, the blinding pain behind your eyes - the knives making their home in your stomach. You keep walking, head down.

You let him be.

 

**#10**

You’re still so new, so fresh to this - that you don’t know how wrong it can go. You don’t know how much you can hurt, yet.

You see him, and elation fills you. That feeling of seeing him, knowing that he’s near. You’re yet to find a feeling like it. Like floating. Like living normally again. Without thinking about it - you call out his name.

“Zayn!” You shout, and it floats to him - crosses the field you’re both standing in, lands itself in his hair.

He turns, looks at you, mouth open slightly. You think about the times you’ve trailed your hand across those lips, about all the times you’ve pulled his body close to yours.

His head tips to the left, confusion evident, and he blinks at you. As he walks towards you, you can see the hesitance in his steps, as though he’s scared to cross the distance. His eyes are empty when he looks at you.

“I’m sorry,” He says, in French. “Who are you?”

There is a crack of ice in your heart, and a pounding, like drums, in your head. Your hands tremor, and you put them behind you - you don’t want him to see you shake, not now, not when he doesn’t know you. Not when he can’t remember you.

“No one,” You say back. “Sorry, I thought you were someone else.”

He steps forwards - as if he’s going to say something, ask you how you knew his name if you thought he was someone else. You hold - wait where you’re standing, breath caught in your throat; you wonder if maybe he will recognise you.

He doesn’t.

 

**#99**

“Does it ever stop?” He asks you.

This is one of the good times, one of the best times - he remembers you. Remembered you as soon as he saw you. You’ve been together for a while now.

Together for longer than most of the times you’ve ever had before. Weeks, even; almost a full four months. Longer than you've had together since the first time.

You shut your eyes. You don't like to think about the first time. Instead, you think about how you’re lying together - think about how his hand is over your heart.

“Does what ever stop?”

“This,” He says. “Us.”

He drops his head, hair falling across his eyes as he presses his words into your skin, inhales you. You wrap an arm around his waist, pull him impossibly closer. Hold him there, against you.

You shouldn’t want another person this much.

“It hasn’t stopped yet,” You say, and smile at him. “This is good, though. This is one of the longest times I’ve ever had with you.”

“Maybe it’ll be longer,” He tells you. “Maybe this is it.”

You don’t say anything back, but the thought of it makes something jump in your chest. _Maybe this is it_ , you think.

He’s gone the next day.

You should have known he would be. He’s gone. Lost. Torn away from you, one more time. Taken, one more time.

You smash everything in your room with your bare fists and cry for two days straight, curled up on the floor, hoping he’ll come back. You know, already, that he doesn’t.

It’s the first time you’ve cried for him in a while.

 

**#200**

You’re tired. You’re thinking about stopping, about lying down - letting your body decompose, waste away from lack of movement. You think you’ve given up, that they’ve taken everything from you. You’re finally finished.

You traipse back to England, because that was where you met him, the first time, all those hundreds of years ago. All those thousands of years ago.

It wasn’t called England, then, but that doesn't mean much. Things can change, but some things are constant.

You think about going home - your real home, but you left it so long ago - that everything worthwhile there is dead.

The only thing that keeps coming back to you is him, and you don’t even want that anymore. Can’t even take that, anymore. The thought of having him - just to lose him. Again, and again, and again.

You’ve lost count of how many times it’s been. You don’t want to keep track of it anymore.

Of course this is when you see him again.

He’s just standing there - back against a wall, cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He looks like he did the first time you saw him, all those years ago - black hair, high cut cheekbones. He looks like he did the first time you loved him. You’ve known him with so many faces, so many voices, accents, eyes, and mouths, and hands.

You loved him the most like this, though.

You know him the most like this.

Lanky, but strong. So beautiful that you thought he was a God. So beautiful that you thought he must be the immortal one.

It’s funny, how these things turn out.

You watch him. Taking him in desperately - like a starving man faced with his first meal in days. Like a traveler, scouring the desert, with the first sight of water in front of him.

You can’t stop looking at those hands. Those hands that you’d know anywhere, but especially now, knuckles tapping against the wall, long, and elegant, and _his._

His, like you knew him.

There are differences, to the first time - he’s dressed heavier, now. Dressed like the people of this time. His skin is different, too; curls of ink spiraling over his hand and across his arms.

It only serves to make you want him more.

When he sees you, the cigarette falls out of his mouth, and his eyes go wide. He pushes away from the wall, takes a staggering step towards you. He looks just as floored as you feel, and you know, with the way that all your bones are clicking into place that this is it. This is the last time you’ll have to see him leave.

He reaches you, touches a hesitant hand to your shoulder.

“Niall,” He whispers, and you can’t even breathe. You fall, melt, collapse into his arms - wrap yourself around him and hold him tight. “I’ve been looking,” He says, into your hair. You laugh around the tears.

“So have I,” You say.

 

**#82**

“What is wrong with you?” He yells, throwing the nearest thing to his hand at you. It’s a book, and you jerk out of it’s way before it makes impact.

“How dare you make me feel these things?” He screams, then, advancing on you as though he is a tiger, and you are his prey.

“The same way you make _me_ feel these things,” You say, and he stops. Eyes wide, mouth trembling.

“I never wanted this,” He says, putting his hands over his eyes and sinking to the floor.

“Zayn,” You say, heart breaking. You take a step towards him - but he holds out his hand.

“Don’t,” He hisses. “ _Leave_.”

You do. It’s the first time he has ever been the one to actively send you away.

 

**#154**

“What would you do if I died?” You ask him, in Greek. You don’t know why you are asking.

Normally, when he remembers - you try to avoid the subject as much as possible. Try to pretend you don’t know that he won’t be around forever. It’s just morbid curiosity, really. You want to know if he would handle it like you do, on the bad days, or like you do, on the good ones.

“I don’t like to think about depressing things,” He replies. You roll your eyes, and press his wrists into the floor beneath you.

“That’s a lazy answer,” You say, and he smiles - stretches up his neck to place a kiss in the centre of your chest. Right where you normally kiss him.

“I can’t imagine it,” He says, looking up at you. “I don’t know what life without you is like. I don’t remember it.”

You smile, a wry twist of your mouth - and release his wrists. Instantly, he tangles them in your hair. “Stop being so broody,” He says, then. “You look like my sunshine, you should smile like it.”

You can’t help it, you smile for him.

 

**#28**

You’re trying to stay away from him, this time - trying, but not really trying. You still see him from afar, every day. Walk the long way round to where you’re working just for an extra look at him.

He sees you, watching, but you know he does not recognise you. You think that will stop him from talking to you, think that will allow him to keep his distance, stay away.

It doesn’t.

You don’t know why you expected that. Neither of you was ever any good at following the rules, at keeping a distance. Neither of you ever let the other learn how.

You know, from the second that he steps over to you, smile on his face and, “Hello,” on his lips - that this time is going to hurt worse than most.

 

**#1**

You see him, when you’re working the field. He has black hair, and darker skin than you do - almost foreign, unknown. Like he came off one of the ships that your dad whispers about sometimes, when you’re supposed to be asleep.

He’s skinny, but his arms are strong, and when he works next to you one day - the two of you get more work done than anyone else in the field.

He turns to you after, smile wide on his face. His eyes crinkling up in a way that you’ve never seen someone do before now. Before him.

“Hey,” He says, holding out his hand. You take it, tentatively, and feel sparks shoot up your arm at the touch. From the shift in his features, he feels it too.

The first time you kiss him - it feels like the first time you’ve taken a breath of air since you were born.

You pull him to you, rough and heavy and real, so real. He pulls your hair and touches your cheek; like he wants to break you, but he wants to put you back together, as well.

“I’d die for you,” He says, hot and heavy into the air. You shush him, but he shakes his head, powers on. “I’d die for you two hundred times over.”

This time, it’s your turn to shake your head. “I wouldn’t let you,” You say. “I’d never let you leave me.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is heavy man. Heavy metal! [Bill and Ted air guitar solo]
> 
> Reincarnation in fanfiction is a concept that's always fascinated me, so I guess it's about time that I made myself known for it. Here's my interpretation on the whole thing - each time period is kept vague so I don't have to go into it all, and I don't know how Niall always recognises Zayn, but he does - okay?
> 
> Title of this fanfiction comes from, "Saying Your Names," by Richard Siken - which is a beautiful, beautiful poem, and very applicable for this fic.
> 
> Any other complaints? Feel free to hmu on tumblr @[](http://niallhiran.tumblr.com)


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